Sometimes during the summer, as the sun begins to set, I would walk over to the bookstore, to browse the shelves. Summer nights and bookstores share an eternal essence. As the cicadas hummed, and the mosquitos flourished, I would stand quietly in an aisle buried amongst shelves, with an open book in my hands, far away from the warm night. Where I was the trees were bare. Snow capped the hills. A warm fire glowed through the window of a small house, and puffy white smoke rose from the chimney. The sound of snow crunching beneath boots came from afar...
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